


Heart and Hearth

by 221b_hound



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Baker Street, Blow Jobs, Frottage, Kissing, M/M, Moustache smut, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Sex in the living room, Sherlock Special, Tumblr Prompt, Victorian, slicked back hair
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-10
Updated: 2015-07-10
Packaged: 2018-04-08 14:39:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4308990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221b_hound/pseuds/221b_hound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Mrs Hudson was visiting with her sister in Bournemouth, and her neighbour, Mrs Turner, had retired to her own home once more after caring for our household for the day; when it was long after dark and the fog rolled in thick and foul; and when clients were not at all likely to bring their deliciously vexing troubles to our door - those were the nights that Holmes and I liked best. For then, the risk was vanishingly small, and the temptation impossibly great, and we would abandon caution. There, in front of the hearth, Holmes and I would dare to love each other without shame, and without the need to discreetly sneak to my upstairs chamber, or to keep our cries muted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heart and Hearth

**Author's Note:**

> This short piece was written straight into the reblog box for [ this Tumblr post.](http://todeserveyou.tumblr.com/post/123696871252/fuckoff-imacting-fuckoff-imacting-send-me)
> 
> It is dedicated to the new stache!John and slickedbackhair!Sherlock.  
> 

When Mrs Hudson was visiting with her sister in Bournemouth, and her neighbour, Mrs Turner, had retired to her own home once more after caring for our household for the day; when it was long after dark and the fog rolled in thick and foul; and when clients were not at all likely to bring their deliciously vexing troubles to our door - those were the nights that Holmes and I liked best. For then, the risk was vanishingly small, and the temptation impossibly great, and we would abandon caution. There, in front of the hearth, Holmes and I would dare to love each other without shame, and without the need to discreetly sneak to my upstairs chamber, or to keep our cries muted.

Those were the nights I would slowly disrobe him and kiss his face, cleared now of furrowed brow and penetrating gaze. Instead, Holmes - my Sherlock, as I could call him in those rare and private moments - my Sherlock would close his eyes and his striking countenance would soften with peace and affection. His hair was swept back from his face in that severe style, which could take him so long to thus tame, and I loved to untame it. I would run my fingers through his dark locks, disarranging them and encouraging the insistent curls to fall again over his forehead.

“John,” he would say, mumuring my name as I kissed his face, and then his throat and then his chest - all of his skin, inch by pale inch as I revealed it to my sight and touch. My Sherlock would sigh contented, and smile as I kissed each dark nipple, my moustache tickling the senstive skin.

When he stood naked before me - those long, slender limbs, his lean and perfect body a joy for my eyes alone - he would hold my face in his hands and kiss me, too. (He had forbidden me to shave my moustache, although I had once offered it. He liked the brush of it on his body, he told me.) As I had stripped him and clothed him in kisses, so he did the same for me.

Then, naked before the fire, we would lay a rug on the floor and explore each other, firelight painting our bodies with warmth and colour. His hair, now unruly, curled about his head like a crown, and the myth that he was a man of marble likewise dissolved as he responded with pleasure and joy to my touch on him.

We laughed together, soft and low, more happy with each other than I had ever been with any woman.

When I at last took him in my mouth, my Sherlock murmured my name, _John, John, John_ , and arched, pushing his body into my hands where I held him, and his prick into my mouth where I licked and sucked. My moustache would brush against that hard and most sensitive skin and send him into mewling gasps of pleasure and ecstacy while my hands kneaded his thighs, his rear, his hips and back, and held him close until he spent himself.

Then he would lay back on the rug and wrap his legs around my waist as I positioned my own prick between the cheeks of his posterior, almost womanly-round, and frotted to my own completion, while he urged me on with my name on his beloved lips.

We would lie a while and kiss, afterwards. I would write love poems to him with my fingertip on his sternum, and he would smile up at me, hair flopped over one eye, and sometimes he would brush his thumb over my moustache and lean up to kiss me.

These, then, were our most perfect nights at Baker Street, declaring our love to each other with our bodies and our sighs right there at the heart and hearth of our home.


End file.
